Prodigal Monday
by snowflake912
Summary: Mondays in June and September bring House and Cuddy together under false pretenses.


Disclaimer: Much as I would love to claim that I own Hugh Laurie, I don't. I'm only borrowing David Shore's fascinating character for some random play.

Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing House fanfiction, and I must admit I don't hate it. This stems from the fact that I usually hate everything I write. I wouldn't go so far as to say I _like_ it, but it's alright. It fluctuates madly between light and dark because I'm still trying to establish some sort of truce with the characters. Somehow, it all manages to make sense.

I hope reading it is half as entertaining as writing it.

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**Prodigal Monday**_  
"There's always something more you wish he'd say."_

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September had been coming for a long time.

The post-summer heat slithered across her nape as she gathered her wavy dark locks and coerced them into a semi-tame knot. Her palm felt cool against the exposed skin, massaging a delicate circle as she tilted her head once to each side in an abbreviated form of stretching. Sliding her trendy black purse from her right shoulder to the crook of her elbow, she sent her left hand blindly rifling through its contents until she felt the bite of her car keys against her fingertips. She pulled the keys out, breathed like this was just any other occasion and smiled at Carl from accounting when he swept across the parking lot in search of his own vehicle. Their eyes met for a moment longer than propriety allowed for two people who shared a workplace but rarely interacted.

He was searching, she knew, for the evidence of her fall from grace. Princeton-Plainsboro was abuzz with the news of the notorious Doctor House's departure to Mayfield.

_I slept with Lisa Cuddy._

Rumor had it that she had mournfully taken up his penchant for misery, but her façade, they whispered, was far more pleasant. She _seemed_ happier, cheerful almost on a good day, but they claimed to have peered into her gloomy soul and found her jaded. They went so far as to say that her supposed melancholy had nothing to do with temporarily shelving her hospital's most-prized asset, and everything to do with the absence of his snarky remarks and his insolent gaze down the front of her blouse.

She had opted to take the high road, turning a deaf ear to the roars of gossip and a blind eye to the lingering curious stares. Wilson commended her maturity, and she pretended to reluctantly approve of the praise. But she knew _he _would have seen right through her, would have bluntly called her a liar and tactlessly thrust her denial under the thirsty gazes of her bystanders. She would have openly resented him, but tacitly loved that he knew her so well.

The car was lividly hot when she climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. The air-conditioning turned on full-blast, startling her out of the beginnings of a reverie where it was the first Monday of June and spring was in full swing. She was in House's office – empty of furniture but bursting with his presence – and his hand was on her breast, warm and imposing, making it hard to breathe. His electric blue eyes held her captive of the cruel twist to his mocking lips – full of secrets and misgivings. It had been so easy to walk away that sunny Monday.

She shook her head, physically dislodging the haunting images, and reached for the panel of plastic buttons, fiddling with them until the blast of icy air quieted to a whisper and the radio bit out phrases of a love song through pauses of static.

For the next thirty minutes, she drove to nameless songs, the lyrics of which merged and morphed into some dark riddle that accompanied every thought she had about him. She remembered him after the Ketamine, throbbing with life and energy, running miles and sweating enough to prove it. She remembered his ragged face in the frame of her bedroom window at midnight, sweat-slicked dark hair, wrinkled brow, quick mouth spewing out an endless chain of excuses for his inappropriate visits. She remembered wanting to kiss the lies off his lips, and then she remembered her mouth breathing into his after his heart stopped in a misguided attempt to save Amber's life.

She couldn't stop remembering the way he'd stood in her office one month ago – lost, alone and broken into a thousand tiny pieces she couldn't begin to search for.

_I told you I needed you._

When she maneuvered her car into a parking spot specified for _guests_, she ridiculously switched off both the radio and the air-conditioner before killing the car's engine. Her memories seeped into the looming three-story building, and she reminded herself that he was not gone. The fingers of her right hand tugged adamantly at the black rubber band holding her hair, releasing the ebony locks to frame her pale face. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, made a show of fluffing her shoulder-length hair and took her compact out of her purse. She brushed a hint of blush across her cheekbones and pursed her lips to reassert the presence of her subtle lipstick.

He was alive and most probably kicking everything that dared to venture in his direction.

Feeling confident and collected, she left her car and strolled into Mayfield, her heels clicking oddly against the linoleum floor. She stopped before a workstation where an elderly lady was busy scribbling away in an agenda.

The woman looked up and offered a welcoming smile. "How can I help you?"

"I'm Doctor Lisa Cuddy," she said by way of introduction, squinting to read the nametag on the other woman's shirt. Sally.

"Doctor Cuddy," Sally repeated, her voice ringing with pleasant recognition. "Doctor Nolan is expecting you, but he had to leave on an emergency. He'll be back within the hour. He said you should just go ahead and visit with the patient. He'd be happy to meet with you afterwards," she reported in the manner of someone who was often asked to fill in for a missing person.

Cuddy smiled, hoping the physical expression wasn't half as tremulous as she felt. _Just go ahead and visit the patient_. "That would be fine," she managed to say, but Sally's eyes gave her a curious once-over.

"Doctor House is sitting outside. Grace will show you the way."

Grace seemed to materialize out of thin air, a small slight woman with brown hair and dark eyes. Cuddy nodded at Sally and muttered a barely audible _thank you_ before falling into step beside Grace's surprisingly quick gait. Her heart hammered in time to the racket their feet created down the long white hallways. It was a two minute walk through the facility, and Grace left her at the glass doors invitingly open to a boundless garden. She drew in a great breath, held it for five seconds longer than she should have and then heaved it out as if her reservations left with the forceful expulsion of air.

There were three people in the garden. Two hovered close to the doors, like they feared the urge of having to rush in at any moment, and they spoke in quiet whispers, unsmiling, unpleasant. Always the renegade, he sat far from the shelter of the brick-stone facility, his back turned to her, alone on a battered wooden bench that had seen far better days. He wore a white vintage t-shirt that made his shoulders seem broader than she remembered, and his head was lowered between them as if lost in thought. His hair was shorter than she'd ever seen it, grayer and thicker, and she wanted to run her fingers through it as she made her way across the falsely cheerful garden and to his side.

She stopped beside his bench just as his sharp gaze snapped upwards. The electric blue eyes that were never far from her thoughts flashed at her with piercing intent. There was something darker about his usually playful gaze, as if he had been somewhere that he couldn't quite forget, as if he had seen something he had never wanted to see. She balanced a wavering smile but dropped it when he continued to stare at her, his head tilting slightly as if he couldn't decide if she was real or just another figment of his traitorous mind.

Her heart thumped sickly against her bones, and she felt rattled, afraid that when he spoke it wouldn't be _him_.

_No, I'm not okay._

"Hey," she heard herself say, her voice oddly husky in the balmy New Jersey afternoon. The weather was mockingly beautiful.

He lifted one silver eyebrow, making way for the sorry excuse of a smile that lifted one corner of his lips. She detected a hint of his dimple through his beard. "Hello, Cuddy," he said finally, the words slow but heavy.

She closed her eyes at the sound of his voice – unchanged on the first Monday of September – still tinged with intelligent candor and wicked intimation. She found herself smiling, wondering what the hallucination version of herself would have done. She imagined she would have straddled his denim-clad thighs and pressed kisses to the wicked dimple in his cheek, but that was _her_ fantasy today. House would have plenty of his own to share if given the chance. "You look well," she remarked at length, making an inane gesture with her hand as she moved to stand before him. She kept a safe three steps between them and studied him from the new vantage point: head tilted back, a sliver of golden sunlight drawing attention to the harsh angle of his stubbly jaw, fascinating eyes brimming with expectation. "How has it been?" she asked.

House leaned against the bench, his back arching as he stifled a yawn. He spread his right arm along the back of the wooden bench and tapped a familiar rock song against the chipped paint. "Peachy," he surmised, his fingers picking up tempo in favor of the new hobby. "I've made so many new friends, mommy!" he exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm, blue eyes widened in mocking innocence.

"House," she sighed and took a physical step backwards. In spite of herself, she listened intently to the simple percussion of his fingers, trying to place the familiar beat. "How have you been? Really."

He looked away as if the sight of her was suddenly more than he could bear. "I'm baking cakes with lunatics. I'm Martha Stewart. How do you think I've been? Until last week, I was having debates about the tabula rasa with John Locke." House picked up his cane from where it was lying beside his Nikes and took to rolling it between his palms. When the silence made him look at her again, he began tapping the rubber head of the cane to the same tune picked up by his fingertips. "I'm fine," he said with a firmness that was asserted in the bulk of his presence.

He _looked_ fine and healthy. It would have been easy to believe him on any other day, but not today. "You're always fine," she echoed softly.

He was far too alert to miss the thread of accusation in her voice. "I am," he agreed, and he was fairly glittering with the challenge in his eyes like he was about to bet about his welfare and make an easy fifty bucks. "I can take care of myself."

_You helped me_.

She would have wanted to argue that particular point but thought better of it. She had no delusions about matching up to him when he was on the warpath. "I'm not trying to take care of you," she replied evenly.

That took him aback. He smiled then, as close to smiling as he could get anyway, and he balanced the cane across his lap. "My girl's a badass. I'd give you my bike, but I'm afraid it won't agree with your outfits." He allowed his stare to trail down the length of her legs and tellingly admired her ecru pencil skirt. His unblemished gaze was full of male appreciation when he met her dismayed stare. "Of course, it would be a whole other kind of story if you let me ride behind you…"

"House," she interrupted, pursing her lips to keep from playing his little games.

"The Cuddy in my head is always so much saucier," he complained.

She crossed her arms over her chest defensively. "What would she have done?"

He eyed her, and she could tell he was pleased that she had decided to participate in the jeu-de-jour. He began to tap his fingers again, against the cane this time – same familiar song. It was almost on the tip of her tongue. "What you want to do," he said, pausing to process the comical drop of her jaw. "And then some," he added, his voice having dropped to a confiding whisper that felt all too loud.

She recovered long enough to clamp her mouth shut and bristle at his suggestive smirk. "I do not want to do _anything_," she sputtered.

He rolled his eyes, long fingers still going at the rhythm, not once missing a beat. "I know the I-want-to-sit-on-your-lap look, Cuddy. See," he said, interrupting the perfectly synced drumming to point at his head. "Gray hair – I wasn't born yesterday."

He couldn't have possibly known. She wanted to die when she felt herself blush so furiously her cheeks glowed.

_That _made him chuckle – real laughter that sounded so odd and unexpected. Despite her mortification, she had to fight the urge to smile at him. "Really?" he asked, raising both eyebrows in wonder as he continued to cackle like the six black skulls on his white shirt. "I was shooting in the dark, but by all means, hop on," he teased, opening his arms at both sides invitingly.

She straightened and lifted her chin the fraction of an inch, closing the distance between them to claim the empty space on the bench beside him. "Shut up, House," she muttered.

"Party pooper," he huffed. "I thought you were going to take me up on my offer." He pointed at where she had been standing and made a gesture to signify her journey from that spot to his side. "It's cruel to mislead a hopeful man."

She rolled her eyes at his grave tone. "As if," she said, giving him an incredulous once-over. Her purse hit the ground between her feet.

He shifted at her side, reshuffling his large frame. When he had resettled, his shoulder was brushing against hers, the worn material of his t-shirt warm against her skin. "As if you wouldn't love every minute," he whispered dauntingly.

Cuddy linked her fingers and laid them on her lap, thoughtfully pressing the fingers of one hand into the knuckles of the other. She told herself that she was relieved he was still the same. Her fears had been entirely misplaced. "You were right," she said and looked up at his profile. He had such a finely chiseled nose, she often thought it perversely misplaced, but today it made him look boyish.

He tilted his chin to meet her gaze, and as their eyes collided – light and dark shades of the same color – he seemed all of a sudden to be much closer than she'd anticipated. "Really?" he prodded, mystified and intrigued. His breath curled warmly across her chin. She wanted to part her lips and taste the tang of it on her tongue, but she only stared back, refusing to lose another round in their arena.

"Yes, really, you were right again. Things never change," she answered, using his words to come out the victor. "People never change. When you come back, everything will be the same. Like nothing ever changed," she finished, and it felt incredibly sad to put it that way. She offered a weak smile to highlight her triumph.

For a small eternity, he measured her features with a pronounced frown that wrinkled his brow. He had a quirk to his lips that told her he had resolved whatever had baffled him. When he shifted his gaze back to a patch of grass beside their feet, it became easier to breathe. House began to tap his cane once more, picking up the lost beat and running with it. "If I come back," he rectified quietly.

A pigeon hovered low over a nearby shrub, cooing loudly before sweeping high and disappearing. She watched him track the tiny figure across the sky and swallowed past the gritty feeling in her throat.

On an impulse she would later regret, she reached for him, her left hand finding the listless weight of his right hand. He was startled by the warmth of her touch, but he hid it so well. He was a man too well-versed in pretense. She curled her fingers around his larger ones and gave them a friendly squeeze that made him lower his chin. "You'll come back," she asserted, and she knew he could tell how fiercely she wanted to believe it.

A muscle twitched in his lean cheek. He smoothed the thumb of his free hand along the polished wood of his cane. She saw her fingers still loosely gripping his own and self-consciously began to draw them away, but he caught her retreating hand before she could safely tuck it in her lap. His eyes darkened to the color of steel as he plaintively surveyed their joint hands. He secured four fingers against her palm and traced her index finger with his thumb – once in each direction. Every nerve ending under his fingertips hissed silkily. She forgot to breathe, the air tangled painfully in her paralyzed lungs. Obliviously unaffected, he went about his latest quest calmly, outlining each of her fingers with the care of a surgeon. Her hand looked strikingly small, completely enveloped inside his. When his thorough examination was through, he lifted her hand and gently laid it on her lap. His touch lingered almost as if they were holding hands. For a few seconds, she pretended they were just any two people on a beautiful Jersey Monday in September, sharing a bench and holding onto each other to remember that they were alive. But then he took his hand away, wrapping it firmly around the top of his cane.

He swung the cane between his slightly parted knees, following its progress dully. "The prodigal son always returns," he said, shattering the safe silence without remorse.

She tried not to think about how she could still feel the texture of his hand against hers or how the breeze was beginning to feel cool against her fingertips. She found nothing to say to his biblical rambling and sunk further into her thoughts. He began to hum softly at her side like their souls hadn't just collided, leaving her a little bit more damaged than before. It was the same song again, and she smiled a little when she finally came up with its name. "Losing my religion," she muttered under her breath, mentally filtering through the lyrics.

He was quick to slant an interested glance in her direction. "Hm?"

Covering her left hand protectively, she fashioned her lips into a lop-sided smile. "The song you were tapping before," she explained. "You were just humming it."

"And you were listening," he observed. Leave it to House to turn her talent for music-recognition into something he could frown about.

She was about to impatiently ask what that said about her when Grace reappeared, silent as a ghost. Her witty comeback momentarily shelved, Cuddy flashed her most convincing professional smile at the bespectacled nurse.

"Doctor Nolan is back, and he would really like to see you as soon as you're done," she announced.

The harsh reminder of his reality washed away the precarious footing of their rediscovered relationship. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see him glowering into the distance, already barricaded behind biting defenses and angry words. She sighed and nodded. "I'm done here," she declared, and the words felt stronger than she did. The subject of her peripheral vision didn't flicker. God, she envied his frosty composure. "I'll be right there." Taking her purse by its leather strap, she came to her feet.

Grace took that as her cue to retreat back into the facility.

Cuddy cast a hurried look over the garden – empty now of its previous inhabitants. She had been there for far too long. She slung her purse over her shoulder, took three steps backwards and looked down at his unmoving posture. "If you need anything…"

He interrupted her with a dismissive wave of one large hand. She caught herself with a newfound fascination with his hands. "I'm fine," he stated.

Wasn't he always? She bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and fervently wished her teeth were viciously sinking into his lips. Perhaps that would bleed some sense into him. "Yeah," she breathed in false acquiescence.

Amusement lit his dark features briefly as if he could read every unsaid word in her angry stance. His eyes were the color of cobalt when they took her in one last time, full of unspoken things, but he blinked and everything disappeared like an illusion he had mastered. "Goodbye, Cuddy."

"Goodbye, House."

It wasn't nearly as easy to walk away on the first Monday of September.

**The End.**

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A/N: Your thoughts feed my muse.


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